


things we lost

by ohmygodwhy



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Episode: s02e18 The Earth King, Family Feels, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, POV Second Person, ozai's a horrible father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:34:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygodwhy/pseuds/ohmygodwhy
Summary: Few times in your life have you been truly afraid.(iroh, zuko, and sickness of the soul)





	

**Author's Note:**

> i somehow rewatched the entire series in literally two days and i told myself i wasn't falling back into this hell but it's such a good show and this relationship gets me every damn time so here we are again 
> 
> (i posted a different version of this on my old ff account a while back but this damn show made me revisit and revise it so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ )

 

Few times in your life have you been truly afraid. 

Zuko collapses, falls to the floor gracelessly, and then Zuko is trembling, burning up and shivering under the thin blanket, yanked violently in and out of consciousness and barely coherent. 

He looks entirely too small (you remember waking the morning after your niece shot you full of lightening, Zuko up and moving around quietly; he bent down to pick his shirt up off the floor and you were struck with the fact that you could make out every notch of his spine, could count each individual rib if you wanted to). And you are afraid—terrified—to admit: rarely have you seen anyone get this sick and live. 

Fear, you have dealt with. You have been afraid before (when you were told your son was dead, white hot terror and denial; when you turned away (coward, a coward) and heard screams echoing through the arena; when Zuko’s ship exploded and you were too far away, when Zuko was coughing, half-drowned and half-conscious and still breathing; when Azula turned out to be just as terrible as her father—if Ozai has broken Zuko he’s done worse to her, twisted her up and molded her into a poised and perfect knife, and you have lived too many years to put the blame solely on her; when Zuko lies on your apartment floor, skin Too Hot, even for a firebender), but sheer uncertainty is something you have never gotten used to.

You are no stranger to illness. You’ve seen soldiers get sick, die of sickness, and you’ve seen sickness of the soul before. But rarely. Rarely have you seen someone get this sick and live.

(And you can’t lose another son— _not another one, please not another one, not this one.)_

You are afraid. 

 

The coughing starts when night falls. Light, at first, quickly turning heavy and violent and body-wracking, pulled straight from his shivering chest. 

You try to soothe it with tea, and when that doesn’t help, warm water. You have to plug his nose to get him to swallow, and the choking noises he makes are horrible. It helps some, but not enough. You are afraid.

 

The dreams start the next morning. You are jerked awake to the sound of murmuring. Sorry, Zuko whispers, I’m sorry, I’m sorry please I’m sorry, and then he’s groaning and thrashing and clutching at his scar like it’s burning him, and you know what he is reliving. 

You gently grab his wrists and pull them away from his face so he doesn’t hurt himself. 

Sorry, he says again, I’m sorry.

I know, you soothe, I know, it’s okay, nephew, it’s alright. I know.

You are afraid.

 

You are afraid, and you are frightened, shocked, when Zuko stirs again a day and a night into his sickness, wiping at his eyes and blinking up at the ceiling. You call his name gently. The boy’s head lolls toward you at the sound of your voice, and—his eyes shoot open when he sees you— _fear,_ startling fear—and he is sitting up and scooting back frantically, quicker than should be possible for someone this sick with another weak, “I’m sorry.” 

Zuko? you ask again on reflex, and Zuko _flinches,_ his whole body spasming as if the word hurts him, lifting an arm like he’s expecting a blow, inching back until he’s pressed against the wall. 

(Fever dreams often bring on hallucinations, you remind yourself. He is afraid of a monster from his past, from a man continents away. He is not afraid of _you_ , you tell yourself, he’s not afraid of you—he has never looked at you like this before but he is not afraid of you.)

I’m _sorry_ , he says again, hands coming together against his bowed forehead like he is praying to spirits that won’t listen, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again _please I’m sorry—please, Father—please please it hurts please._

Over and over again like a mantra, voice shaking and cracking and so small, like he’s a twelve year old boy again, the sickness bringing out poisonous memories and twisting them around _(you are not the one he is afraid of)_ , and you feel vaguely nauseous and helpless and useless. 

(But as much as he is shaking, Zuko is not cowering. He is scared and he is powerless but he is not cowering—sickness of the soul strips a man down to his barest form, the core that lies beneath the layers, but your boy is so remarkably strong it makes you want to cry.)

Zuko quiets down eventually, slumping against the wall when he drifts fitfully back to sleep. You lie him back down gently, gently, and wonder how your brother could hate his own son so much. 

 

(There is a moment, however brief, where you are sure you’re going to lose him. His breath is coming in shallow painful puffs, the curve in his brow has gone slack—he is motionless against the floor. 

There is a moment, however brief, where you feel your world come crashing down around you, grief like you haven’t felt in so so many years. You clutch his hand and you bend down desperately to hear for a heartbeat and you struggle to breathe when you find one, however faint, beating soft and resilient in his campfire chest. 

You look to the ceiling and you thank Agni with everything you have left in your weary bones.)

 

When Zuko wakes, fever burned out, you are half-asleep, hand still loosely curled around his.

Uncle? you hear and you raise your head and Zuko is blinking up at you blearily. You have never been happier to see his eyes. 

I’m here, you say, and let him grip your arm to pull himself up. 

He rubs at his eyes and runs a hand through his messy hair, blinks around with that little confused frown on his face. His eyes land on you and widen in alarm.

What’s going on? he asks, voice weak but clear, Why are you crying?

You hadn’t noticed the hot sting in your eyes until he pointed it out, and you give a small watery laugh. 

You pull him into a hug, let him slump against you and wrap your arms around his skinny frame, cup the back of his head.

It’s nothing, you say, I’m just glad to see you back in the land of the living.

You feel his eyebrows furrow against the skin of your neck.

Are you okay? he asks, breathless and amazingly, beautifully alive.

Yes, you answer, and smile, I think I will be just fine.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> one single tiny comment can save a life my guy

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hard Bargains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8678845) by [thesometimeswarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesometimeswarrior/pseuds/thesometimeswarrior)




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